


Words Spoken Softly

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: M/M, PWP, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5201477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soft-spoken Lone Wanderer is crushed when Amata throws him out of the Vault once again. Charon tries to comfort him. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words Spoken Softly

**Author's Note:**

> I totally forgot to post this here from the kmeme (which is weird because I love writing less vanilla stuff and this was right up my alley.) So..enjoy!

“I can’t… I can’t believe.. after what I’ve done.” Vaultie hiccups out, his voice thick with tears and frustration.  
  
Charon grunts, his shoulders hunched. He nearly speaks, but his tongue is tied as the Lone Wanderer continues: “They just—j-just kick me out again! Like that!" He rarely gets mad, not like this; Charon’s sure it’s because Amata was the one telling him he had to go. That he saved their Vault, but he had to leave, he wasn’t welcome home anymore. And he’s sure the boy doesn’t have any tears left anyway, not after the recent death of his father, so what’s left but anger—  
  
Vaultie has stopped in his tracks in the middle of the tunnel, between the now-silent Vault door and the rickety wooden one leading to the outside world, his fists shoved into his eyes. He hiccups, warningly, and Charon is quick to step in, his hands framing his shoulders.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
His reply is silence. Charon soothingly rubs at his shoulders, pulls him in, and his employer takes to his embrace immediately, pressing his face to his chest. “Hey. They don’t… understand." Charon is not particularly good at this, but he knows it doesn't take much to please the Lone Wanderer. The wasteland and its inhabitants doled out praise so sparingly the smallest word could soothe him. Charon rolls the words around in his mouth before mumbling, honestly, "None of them appreciate you.”  
  
Vaultie’s voice is small against his chest. “Really?"  
  
“Really.” Charon grunts, guides him towards the wooden door. Vaultie’s feet are like lead. He walks a few steps and then leans heavily against the tunnel wall, sliding halfway down.  
  
“Do you… are you sure? Nobody… else…” His voice dies in his throat.  
  
Charon exhales, not irritated, just lacking of anything else to say or do. He knows this happens to Vaultie; knows that the people of the wastes are so disgustingly ungrateful for the things he does. The majority of the people Vaultie breaks his back for don’t even care for him much, take what he gives with an irritated sigh and maybe a half-hearted “thanks” if he’s lucky. Each time it wounds him so personally. Charon doesn’t understand, never will. He is a tool, never expecting gratitude– though his employer drops thank yous into his lap constantly, and Charon is often left overloaded and confused by the barrage.  
  
 Instead of pulling him along, Charon stops by his side. He is the first to sit down, and Vaultie follows, silently grateful.  
  
“I am sure. Three Dog is sure. So many people appreciate you.”  
  
The Lone Wanderer shrugs, and tugs at the collar of his new Vault 101 suit, his only souvenir of the trip. “I don’t know…”  
  
It's a split second decision; Charon pulls the Lone Wanderer back, onto his lap, and the smaller man squirms and shifts until he’s comfortable. Charon curls his arms around Vaultie, and he squirms a little more, hesitant. “You’re the Last, Best Hope for Humanity, Adam.”  
  
He can’t see his face with his back to his chest and his head underneath his chin, but Charon can practically feel Vaultie perk up, while simultaneously relaxing back into Charon’s embrace. Charon’s hand idly strokes his thigh in soft, soothing motions. “Yeah?”  
  
Charon leans in, brushes his face against Vaultie’s curls. He smells like gunpowder, and there’s the sharp tang of sweat there, the foreign smell of the Vault’s detergent. He is warm, and his body gives under his hands; his thigh trembles as he pets it in long strokes, and his back arches a little as Charon adjusts his own seating on the hard ground. They are both new to this, physical touch and wanted closeness. Charon surprisingly finds it easier to speak with his thumb rubbing rhythmically against the material of his employer's vault suit. “Three Dog has said it, and I agree,” His voice is low, purposeful, words rumbling from his throat as he moves his lips closer to the shell of his employer’s ear. “You are a good person.”

He can feel it before he hears it, just the slight hitch of his breath, the shudder of his ribs; Vaultie’s hands are tentatively on Charon’s leg as he lifts himself up slightly, addressing the slope of his backside against Charon’s bulge, widens his own legs a bit. “Y-yeah?” Charon can already feel his cock slowly swell in his pants at the fully body contact. The ass accidentally grinding down on him, the curl of his hair close enough to lean in and breathe in-  
  
Keep talking, keep talking, keep talking—

Charon could never be considered talkative, but for his employer, he certainly would try: “You are an amazing shot.” The hand not on his thigh captures Vaultie’s trigger hand in his own; his Vaultie's calluses rival his own radiation weathered hands, and he rubs his thumb in firm, slow circles over the ball of his hand, his palm. “The shots that you have taken, saving others, saving myself…” Vaultie’s hand flexes, relaxes under his firm touch as Charon pushes his thumb up the tendons of his hand towards his fingers. Vaultie’s hips are minutely grinding backward, small, small swivels, the slightest hitch of breath. It sounds louder echoing in the cave.

The massaging does not stop as he speaks, “Your skill is years beyond you age,” He gives his hand one last rub before placing it back on his thigh; Vaultie grips Charon like a lifeline as his hand slides up to his chest, can feel the quickened and fluttering thump. “You have a good heart—“

“’m a good person?”

His voice is so small, so hopeful. Charon snorts in Vaultie’s ear and his employer shudders at the warm gust of air on his lobe. “You are a good, beautiful person,” He palms a pec, slides down to his torso and palms his ribs, and then his stomach, which shudders underneath his broad grip. “With heart. Conviction. Determination.”

Vaultie nearly says something but it ends up being a small, croaking noise as Charon suddenly squeezes his thigh again, his fingers firm. He kneads, slow. “And your legs. You carry us, keep us going. You walk all day for the people of the wastes, and even without that suit—“

“I could—c-could sneak past them all, any bad guy, just— I could—“ Vaultie gasps, squirms, his eyelashes flutter and Charon drags his fingertips up his thigh, creeps closer inward, rubs against the juncture of his thigh and pelvis through the thin, stiff fabric of his vault suit.

“You could, of course.” Charon finally, finally presses his lips to the shell of Vaultie’s ear, and Vaultie practically keens in his lap at the contact. “You could. You are the best there is; you are swift, and silent, and deadly.” His mouth latches onto the lobe, drag slow and release it with a click of his teeth together. “And we are all so lucky that you are on our side.”

Vaultie’s back arching and minute grinding has turned into grinding in earnest, and Charon is so hard, so painfully fucking hard and aroused. But he is patient. He has spent years standing stockstill as a bouncer in a grimy bar and he has spent years humping as a soldier through the muck and the snow and the one thing he has learned is patience.  
Vaultie stifles a groan. Charon exhales, continues rubbing slow, small circles against the crease of his thigh. His thrusts are not only against his own hardness but up, canting slightly and needily to the side, towards his fingers and hand. “All of the things you have done… the Capital Wastes would never have gotten this far without you.”

His only reply is a shaking, _"Yes"_ , and Vaultie's fingers grounding himself in his thigh. Charon trails his lips down Vaultie's neck, kisses the warm skin there and lathes his tongue over it. "You are our salvation--"

"Charon--"

And Charon finally, finally moves his hand, slides it firm over the Lone Wanderer's impossibly hard bulge, his cock straining against the fabric. He feels a wetness under his hand, the telltale slickness of precum that's leaked from the slit and soaked through the front of his jumpsuit. He grinds the heel of his palm against the bulge, and Vaultie's reaction is instantaneous, desperate arching and a low keen. "You are the ranger of the wastes, a paragon, the hero of the wastes, a wasteland savior--"

Vaultie whimpers, strangled, and Charon grips him, thumbing the head of his cock through his slacks. His other hand clumsily rubs at his chest, and he fumbles to find a nipple through the clothing. His voice dips lower, and he growls in his ear, a string of titles and praises and--

He pushes down, barely makes a stroking motion with the awkward angle and the entrapment of his garment and suddenly Vaultie is grinding up and his head is lolling back on Charon's broad shoulders. The wetness spreads under his hand, and the fingers on Charon's thigh would bruise if his skin had the ability to show burst capillaries anymore. It takes some time for Vaultie's breathing to even out; until it does, Charon kisses his neck, slow and patient. When his lips creep up to his jaw, and the side of his cheeks, it is warm and flushed to the touch.

"Feeling better?" Charon mumbles. Vaultie laughs, low and embarrassed. He twists his head and smiles underneath Charon's lips.


End file.
